Submission (#8116) Approved

Words: 1159
Quest Nin: MYO-ELN148
Region: Kyendi
CW: vague nightmares & panic attack, vaguely mentioned death & blood, grief, generally a sad time with a hopeful end
Also both elnins are in their gijinka form which is not a content warning but I thought I mention it anyway

Also made a little sketch to go along with it :>

Rapid breathing echoed through the dark bedroom, drowning out all the other noises, like the soft ruffling of curtains in the wind and bedsheets being tossed. 

It took Harun a moment until he noticed that those anxiety laden breaths were his own. Panic flooded his body and the remnants of the nightmare spilled into reality, clinging to him just like his long hair against his sweaty skin. 

The cool night air did nothing to help him. 

He stared at the ornate ceiling above the bed without really seeing it. His eyes fluttered, opening and closing quickly, trying to get rid of the haunting pictures in his head, ...to no avail.

It was useless.

He had learned a long time ago that he couldn't outrun the memories, but it has been a while since they crept back into his dreams. 

His heart was pounding in his chest and everything was too much; his clothes felt too restricting, the darkness pressed down on him and his throat closed up, as a choked cry got stuck in there. Only the fact that Jirai was still sleeping soundly a few inches from him kept Harun from completely spinning out. 

Without second thoughts, his body moved on its own. Frantic hands opened the drawer of the nightstand, sifting through the trinkets in there until he felt a familiar shape. He only hesitated for a split second, before his trembling fingers closed around it, holding onto it for dear life.

He pulled it out slowly - the tiny, golden music box, dulled with age and the faint patina of grief.

A gift from a time that no longer existed.
A piece of a life that had been stolen.

He sat up slowly, careful not to disturb the small sleeping form beside him. Jirais quiet breathing was steady, his little back rising and falling under the covers. Harun didn’t deserve peace like that, he thought; not after everything. But the thought of Jirai, safe and warm, gave him just enough strength to keep from falling apart completely.

The music box clicked open with a sound far too loud in the silence. Its tiny brass hinges groaned slightly; tired, like everything else it carried. Inside, the mechanism shivered to life, and a brittle, broken tune began to play. The melody was jagged and halting, like the fragmented memory of a song once known by heart. What had once been a lullaby now stuttered through missing notes, each pause scraping along Haruns chest like a dull blade.

The box itself was old - so small it fit perfectly in the cradle of his palm, but intricately made. Its golden surface was weathered with time, but the engravings had survived: curling vines twined along the outer edges, delicate leaves unfurling between crawling ivy and flowering stems. Tiny insects were etched among the foliage; bees, moths, a single cicada with open wings, their fine wings captured in minuscule detail. They shimmered faintly in the silver moonlight pouring through the window.

But at the heart of it all was the dragonfly.

Nestled inside the open lid was a delicate metal sculpture, a dragonfly with impossibly thin wings crafted from old stained glass and filament wire. The wings were cracked now - one bent at an unnatural angle, one completely shattered - but still, they moved.
As the music played, the mechanism beneath them turned slowly, causing the dragonfly to flutter with twitching, broken elegance, as though it was still trying to take flight, even with its wounds.

Even with everything.

Harun stared at it, transfixed. It was beautiful, and it was ruined. Just like the memories.

He bowed over it again, shielding it with his body, as though afraid the world might try to take it from him. It was the last thing he had from before…the final whisper of home. And even broken, it still played.

It still moved.

His breaths were sharp, fast, shallow. His eyes stung but he didn’t cry, he barely did, not anymore. The tears never came the way they used to. The grief had carved him out and left only the weight behind.

In the darkness, memories licked at his thoughts like wildfire - his mothers laughter as it rang through the halls, his siblings racing down cobbled paths, the scent of cinnamon and dried flowers in the morning sun. The flash of metal. The blood. The silence that followed.

He clenched the music box tighter, as though it could rewind time if he held on hard enough. As though it could bring them all back.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered into the night, voice cracking, almost inaudible, choking back tears. “I should have been there…”

But he hadn’t been. He had been too far away. Too slow. Too soft.

The wind stirred the curtains gently, letting in a breath of summer night air. It was warm, fragrant with jasmine and distant leaves. Somewhere, a bird called. The world was still moving forward, even if he wasn’t.

Harun closed the lid of the music box carefully, as though afraid it might shatter. The broken tune stopped abruptly, leaving behind a painful silence.

His chest rose and fell shakily, exhaustion setting in beneath the sharp edges of panic. His eyes turned again to Jirai, the little kittom curled into the bedsheets, his tiny hands tucked beneath his chin, clinging to a plush toy, a soft smile still playing on his sleeping face. So small. So unaware of the shadows that haunted the adult beside him.

Haruns breath hitched, a new kind of ache settling in.

Jirai didn’t deserve a broken guardian. He deserved warmth, joy, stories and morning tea. He deserved sunlight, not secondhand grief. But Harun knew - knew - that even if he had nothing left inside him but aching memories and half-spoken apologies, he had to be the one to shield Jirai from the weight of the past.

That little life was his purpose now. The last thread tying him to the present.

Harun wiped his face with the back of his hand, steadying his breath as best he could. His hands still shook, but the edge of the panic had dulled...somewhat. The ghosts were quieter now. Not gone. Just... watching.

He slowly shifted back down beside Jirai, curling around the kittom protectively. He pulled the covers back over them and held the music box to his chest. His long hair spread like ivy across the bed, catching the moonlight just faintly.

Jirai stirred only a little, murmuring something half-formed in his sleep before settling again. Harun brushed his ear with a trembling hand, voice hoarse.

“Sleep well, little one…”

He listened to the wind for a long time. The hum of night. The way it filled the room like water in a glass. The way it didn’t stop - not even for grief. And eventually, he let his eyes close again.

He would keep going. He had to. For Jirai.

For what little future was still waiting for them.